I.--JIM LESLIE WRITES A LETTER II.--THE STORY-BOOK WEST III.--BENNINGTON HUNTS FOR GOLD AND FINDS A KISS IV.--THE SUN FAIRY V.--THE SPIRIT MOUNTAIN VI.--BENNINGTON AS A MAN OF BUSINESS VII.--THE MEETING AT THE ROCK VIII.--AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT IX.--THE HEAVENS OPENED X.--THE WORLD MADE YOUNG XI.--AND HE DID EAT XII.--OLD MIZZOU RESIGNS XIII.--THE SPIRES OF STONE XIV.--THE PIONEER'S PICNIC XV.--THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN XVI.--A NOON DINNER XVII.--NOBLESSE OBLIGEXVIII.--THE CLAIM JUMPERS XIX.--BENNINGTON PROVES GAME XX.--MASKS OFF XXI.--THE LAND OF VISIONS XXII.--FLOWER O' THE WORLD

CHAPTER I

JIM LESLIE WRITES A LETTER

In a fifth-story sitting room of a New York boarding house four youthswere holding a discussion. The sitting room was large and square, andin the wildest disorder, which was, however, sublimated into a certainsystem by an illuminated device to the effect that one should "Have aPlace for Everything, and then there'll be one Place you won't have tolook." Easels and artists' materials thrust back to the wallsufficiently advertised the art student, and perhaps explained theuntidiness.

Two of the occupants of the room, curled up on elevated window ledges,were emitting clouds of tobacco smoke and nursing their knees; theother two, naked to the waist, sat on a couple of ordinary bedroommattresses deposited carefully in the vacant centre of the apartment.They were eager, alert-looking young men, well-muscled, curly of hair,and possessing in common an unabashed carriage of the head which, moreplainly than any mere facial resemblance, proved them brothers. They,too, were nursing their knees.

"He must be an unadorned ass," remarked one of the occupants of thewindow seats, in answer to some previous statement.

"He is not," categorically denied a youth of the mattresses. "My dearHench, you make no distinctions. I've been talking about the boy'speople and his bringing up and the way he acts, whereupon you fly offon a tangent and coolly conclude things about the boy himself. It isnot only unkind, but stupid."

Hench laughed. "You amuse me, Jeems," said he; "elucidate."

Jeems let go his knees. The upper part of his body, thus deprived ofsupport, fell backward on the mattress. He then clasped his handsbehind his head, and stared at the ceiling.

"Listen, ye multitude," he began; "I'm an artist. So are you. I'm alsoa philosopher. You are not. Therefore, I'll deign to instruct you. Bende Laney has a father and a mother. The father is pompous, conceited,and a bore. The mother is pompous, conceited, and a bore. The fatheruses language of whose absolutely vapid correctness Addison would havebeen proud. So does the mother, unless she forgets, in which case theold man calls her down hard. They, are rich and of a good socialposition. The latter worries them, because they have to keep up itsdignity."

"They succeed," interrupted the other brother fervently, "they succeed.I dined there once. After that I went around to the waxworks to getcheered up a bit."

"Quite so, Bertie," replied the philosopher; "but you interrupted mejust before I got to my point. The poor old creatures had been marriedmany years before Bennie came to cheer _them_ up. Naturally, Bennie hasbeen the whole thing ever since. He is allowed a few privileges, butalways under the best auspices. The rest of the time he stays at home,is told what or what not a gentleman should do, and is instructed inthe genealogy of the de Laneys."

"The mother is always impressing him with the fact that he is a deLaney on both sides," interpolated Bert.

"Important, if true, as the newspapers say," remarked the other youngman on the window ledge. "What constitutes a de Laney?"

"Hereditary lack of humour, Beck, my boy. Well, the result is that poorBennie is a sort of----" the speaker hesitated for his word.

"'Willy boy,'" suggested Beck, mildly.

"Something of the sort, but not exactly. A 'willy boy' never has ideas.Bennie has."

"Such as?"

"Well, for one thing, he wants to get away. He doesn't seem quitecontent with his job of idle aristocrat. I believe he's been pesteringthe old man to send him West. Old man doesn't approve."

"'That the fine bloom of culture will become rubbed off in the contactwith rude, rough men, seems to me inevitable,'" mimicked Bert inpedantic tones, "'unless a firm sense of personal dignity and anequally firm sense of our obligations to more refined though absentfriends hedges us about with adequate safeguards.'"

The four laughed. "That's his style, sure enough," Jim agreed.

"What does he want to do West?" asked Hench.

"_He_ doesn't know. Write a book, I believe, or something of that sort.But he _isn't_ an ass. He has a lot of good stuff in him, only it willnever get a chance, fixed the way he is now."

A silence fell, which was broken at last by Bert.

"Come, Jeems," he suggested; "here we've taken up Hench's valuableidea, but are no farther with it."

"True," said Jeems.

He rolled over on his hands and knees. Bert took up a similar positionby his side.

"Go!" shouted Hench from the window ledge.

At the word, the two on the mattress turned and grappled each otherfiercely, half rising to their feet in the strenuousness of endeavour.Jeems tried frantically for a half-Nelson. While preventing it the wilyBert awaited his chance for a hammer-lock. In the moment of indecisionas to which would succeed in his charitable design, a knock on the doorput an end to hostilities. The gladiators sat upright and panted.

A young man stepped bashfully into the room and closed the door behindhim.

The newcomer was a clean-cut young fellow, of perhaps twenty-two yearsof age, with regular features, brown eyes, straight hair, and sensitivelips. He was exceedingly well-dressed. A moment's pause followed hisappearance. Then:

De Laney bowed to the young men in the window, who removed their pipesfrom their mouths and grinned amiably.

"This, gentlemen," explained Jeems, without changing his position, "isMr. Bennie de Laney on both sides. It is extremely fortunate for Mr. deLaney that he is a de Laney on both sides, for otherwise he would belop-sided."

"You will find a seat, Mr. de Laney, in the adjoining bedroom," saidthe first, with great politeness; "and if you don't care to go inthere, you will stand yourself in the corner by that easel until theconclusion of this little discussion between Jeems and myself.--Jeems,will you kindly state the merits of the discussion to the gentleman?I'm out of breath."

Jeems kindly would.

"Bert and I have, for the last few weeks, been obeying the partingcommands of our dear mother. 'Boys,' said she, with tears in her eyes,'Boys, always take care of one another.' So each evening I have triedto tuck Bertie in his little bed, and Bertie, with equal enthusiasm,has attempted to tuck _me_ in. It has been hard on pyjamas, bedsprings, and the temper of the Lady with the Piano who resides in theapartments immediately beneath; so, at the wise suggestion of ourfriends in the windows"--he waved a graceful hand toward them, and theygravely bowed acknowledgment--"we are now engaged in deciding thematter Graeco-Roman. The winner 'tucks.' Come on, Bertie."

The two again took position side by side, on their hands and knees,while Mr. Hench explained to de Laney that this method of beginning thebout was necessary, because the limited area of the mat precludedflying falls. At a signal from Mr. Beck, they turned and grappled,Jeems, by the grace of Providence, on top. In the course of the combatit often happened that the two mattresses would slide apart. Thecontestants, suspending their struggles, would then try to kick themtogether again without releasing the advantage of their holds. Thenoise was beautiful. To de Laney, strong in maternal admonitions as toproper deportment, it was all new and stirring, and quite withoutprecedent. He applauded excitedly, and made as much racket as therest.

A sudden and vigorous knock for the second time put an end tohostilities. The wrestlers again sat bolt upright on the mattresses,and listened.

"Gentlemen," cried an irritated German voice, "there is a ladyschleeping on the next floor!"

"Karl, Karl!" called one of the irrepressibles, "can I never teach youto be accurate! No lady could possibly be sleeping anywhere in thebuilding."

He arose from the mattress and shook himself.

"Jeems," he continued sadly, "the world is against true virtue. Ourdear mother's wishes can not be respected."

De Laney came out of his corner.

"Fellows," he cried with enthusiasm, "I want you to come up and stayall night with me some time, so mother can see that gentlemen can makea noise!"

Bertie sat down suddenly and shrieked. Jeems rolled over and over,clutching small feathers from the mattress in the agony of his delight,while the clothed youths contented themselves with amused but gurglingchuckles.

"Bennie, my boy," gasped Jeems, at last, "you'll be the death of me! OLord! O Lord! You unfortunate infant! You shall come here and have adrum to pound; yes, you shall." He tottered weakly to his feet. "Come,Bertie, let us go get dressed."

The two disappeared into the bedroom, leaving de Laney uncomfortablyalone with the occupants of the window ledge.

The young fellow walked awkwardly across the room and sat down on apartly empty chair, not because he preferred sitting to standing, butin order to give himself time to recover from his embarrassment.

The sort of chaffing to which he had just been subjected was direct andbrutal; it touched all his tender spots--the very spots wherein herealized the intensest soreness of his deficiencies, and about which,therefore, he was the most sensitive--yet, somehow, he liked it. Thiswas because the Leslie boys meant to him everything free and young thathe had missed in the precise atmosphere of his own home, and so headmired them and stood in delightful inferiority to them in spite ofhis wealth and position. He would have given anything he owned to havefelt himself one of their sort; but, failing that, the next best thingwas to possess their intimacy. Of this intimacy chaffing was a gauge.Bennington Clarence de Laney always glowed at heart when they rubbedhis fur the wrong way, for it showed that they felt they knew him wellenough to do so. And in this there was something just a littlepathetic.

Bennington held to the society standpoint with men, so he thought hemust keep up a conversation. He did so. It was laboured. Benningtonthought of things to say about Art, the Theatre, and Books. Hench andBeck looked at each other from time to time.

Finally the door opened, and, to the relief of all, two sweatered andwhite-ducked individuals appeared.

"And how is the proud plutocrat?" inquired Bert; "and how did hecontrive to get leave to visit us rude and vulgar persons?"

The Leslies had called at the de Laneys', and, as Bert said, had dinedthere once. They recognised their status, and rejoiced therein.

"He is calling on the minister," explained Jeems for him. "Bennington,my son, you'll get caught at that some day, as sure as shooting. Ifyour mamma ever found out that, instead of talking society-religion toold Garnett, you were revelling in this awful dissipation, you'd haveto go abroad again."

"What did you call him?" inquired Bert.

"Call who?"

"Him--Bennie--what was that full name?"

"Bennington."

"Great Scott! and here I've been thinking all the time he was plainBenjamin! Tell us about it, my boy. What is it? It sounds like a battleof the Revolution. _Is_ it a battle of the Revolution? Just to thinkthat all this time we have been entertaining unawares a real livebattle!"

De Laney grinned, half-embarrassed as usual.

"It's a family name," said he. "It's the name of an ancestor."

He never knew whether or not these vivacious youths really desired thevaried information they demanded.

The Leslies looked upon him with awe.

"You don't mean to tell me," said Bertie, "that you are a Bennington!Well, well! This is a small world! We will celebrate the discovery." Hewalked to the door and touched a bell five times. "Beautiful system,"he explained. "In a moment Karl will appear with five beers. Thisarrangement is possible because never, in any circumstances, do we ringfor anything but beer."

The beer came. Two steins, two glasses, and a carefully scrubbedshaving mug were pressed into service. After the excitement of findingall these things had died, and the five men were grouped about theplace in ungraceful but comfortable attitudes, Bennington bid for thesympathy he had sought in this visit.

"Fellows," said he, "I've something to tell you."

"Let her flicker," said Jim.

"I'm going away next week. It's all settled."

"Bar Harbour, Trouville, Paris, or Berlin?"

"None of them. I'm going West."

"Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, San Diego, or Monterey?"

"None of them. I'm going to the real West. I'm going to a mining camp."

"Yes," said Bennington, "I've always wanted to go West. I want towrite, and I'm sure, in that great, free country, I'll get a chance fordevelopment. I had to work hard to induce father and mother to consent,but it's done now, and I leave next week. Father procured me a positionout there in one of the camps. I'm to be local treasurer, or somethinglike that; I'm not quite sure, you see, for I haven't talked withBishop yet. I go to his office for directions to-morrow."

At the mention of Bishop the Leslies glanced at each other behind theyoung man's back.

"Bishop?" repeated Jim. "Where's your job located?"

"In the Black Hills of South Dakota, somewhere near a little placecalled Spanish Gulch."

This time the Leslies winked at each other.

"It's a nice country," commented Bert vaguely; "I've been there."

"Oh, have you?" cried the young man. "What's it like?"

"Hills, pines, log houses, good hunting--oh, it's Western enough."

A clock struck in a church tower outside. In spite of himself,Bennington started.

"Better run along home," laughed Jim; "your mamma will be angry."

To prove that this consideration carried no weight, Bennington stayedten minutes longer. Then he descended the five flights of stairsdeliberately enough, but once out of earshot of his friends, he ranseveral blocks. Before going into the house he took off his shoes. Inspite of the precaution, his mother called to him as he passed herroom. It was half past ten.

Beck and Hench kicked de Laney's chair aside, and drew up morecomfortably before the fire; but James would have none of it. He seemedto be excited.

"No," he vetoed decidedly. "You fellows have got to get out! I've gotsomething to do, and I can't be bothered."

The visitors grumbled. "There's true hospitality for you," objectedthey; "turn your best friends out into the cold world! I like that!"

They went, grumbling loudly down the length of the stairs, to thedisgust of the Lady with the Piano on the floor below.

"What're you up to, anyway, Jimmie?" inquired the brother with somecuriosity.

James had swept a space clear on the table, and was arranging somestationery.

"Don't you care," he replied; "you just sit down and read your littleOmar for a while."

He plunged into the labours of composition, and Bert sat smokingmeditatively. After some moments the writer passed a letter over to thesmoker.

"Think it'll do?" he inquired.

Bert read the letter through carefully.

"Jeems," said he, after due deliberation, "Jeems, you're a bloominggenius."

James stamped the envelope.

"I'll mail it for you when I go out in the morning," Bert suggested.

"Not on your daily bread, sonny. It is posted now by my own hand. Wewon't take any chances on _this_ layout, and that I can tell you."

He tramped down four flights and to the corner, although it wasmidnight and bitter cold. Then, with a seraphic grin on hiscountenance, he went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.

The envelope was addressed to a Mr. James Fay, Spanish Gulch, SouthDakota.

CHAPTER II

THE STORY-BOOK WEST

When a man is twenty-one, and has had no experience, and graduates froma small college where he roomed alone in splendour, and possesses agift of words and a certain delight in reading, and is thrown into newand, to him, romantic surroundings--when all these stars of chancecross their orbits, he begins to write a novel. The novel never hasanything to do with the aforesaid new and romantic surroundings;neither has it the faintest connection with anything the author hasever seen. That would limit his imagination.

Once he was well settled in his new home, and the first excitement ofnovel impressions had worn off, Bennington de Laney began to writeregularly three hours a day. He did his scribbling with a fountain pen,on typewriter paper, and left a broad right-hand margin, just as he hadseen Brooks do. In it he experienced, above all, a delightful feelingof power. He enjoyed to the full his ability to swing gorgeous involvedsentences, phrase after phrase, down the long arc of rhetoric, withouta pause, without a quiver, until they rushed unhasting up the otherslope to end in beautiful words, polysyllabic, but with just the rightnumber of syllables. Interspersed were short sentences. He counted thewords in one or the other of these two sorts, carefully noting therelations they bore to each other. On occasions he despaired becausethey did not bear the right relations. And he also dragged out,squirming, the Anglo-Saxon and Latin derivations, and set them up in arow that he might observe their respective numbers. He was uneasilyconscious that he ought, in the dread of college anathema, to use theformer, but he loved the many-syllabled crash or modulated music of thelatter. Also, there was the question of getting variety into hisparagraph lengths. It was all excellent practice.

And yet this technique, absorbing as it was, counted as nothing incomparison with the subject-matter.

The method was talent; the subject-matter was Genius; and Genius hadevolved an Idea which no one had ever thought of before--somethingbrand new under the sun. It goes without saying that the Ideasymbolized a great Truth. One department, the more impersonal, ofBennington's critical faculty, assured him that the Idea would takerank with the Ideas of Plato and Emerson. Emerson, Benningtonworshipped. Plato he also worshipped--because Emerson told him to. Hehad never read Plato himself. The other, the more personal and modest,however, had perforce to doubt this, not because it doubted the Idea,but because Bennington was not naturally conceited.

To settle the discrepancy he began to write. He laid the scene inArabia and decided to call it _Aliris: A Romance of all Time_, becausehe liked the smooth, easy flow of the syllables.

The consciousness that he could do all this sugar-coated his WildWestern experiences, which otherwise might have been a littledisagreeable. He could comfort himself with the reflection that he wassuperior, if ridiculous.

In spots, he was certainly the latter. The locality into which hisdestinies had led him lay in the tumultuous centre of the Hills, aboutthirty miles from Custer and ten from Hill City. Spanish Gulch wasthree miles down the draw. The Holy Smoke mine, to which Bennington wasaccredited, he found to consist of a hole in the ground, of unsoundeddepth, two log structures, and a chicken coop. The log structuresresembled those he had read about. In one of them lived Arthur and hiswife. The wife did the cooking. Arthur did nothing at all but sit inthe shade and smoke a pipe, and this in spite of the fact that he didnot look like a loafer. He had no official connection with the place,except that of husband to Mrs. Arthur. The other member of thecommunity was Davidson, alias Old Mizzou.

The latter was cordial and voluble. As he was blessed with a long whitebeard of the patriarchal type, he inspired confidence. He usedexclusively the present tense and chewed tobacco. He also playedinterminable cribbage. Likewise he talked. The latter was his strongpoint. Bennington found that within two days of his arrival he knew allabout the company's business without having proved the necessity ofstirring foot on his own behalf. The claims were not worth much,according to Old Mizzou. The company had been cheated. They would findit out some day. None of the ore assayed very high. For his part he didnot see why they even did assessment work. Bennington was to look afterthe latter? All in good time. You know you had until the end of theyear to do it. What else was there to do? Nothing much; The presentholders had come into the property on a foreclosed mortgage, andweren't doing anything to develop it yet. Did Bennington know of theirplans? No? Well, it looked as though the two of them were to have apretty easy time of it, didn't it?

Old Mizzou tried, by adroit questioning, to find out just why de Laneyhad been sent West. There was, in reality, not enough to keep one manbusy, and surely Old Mizzou considered himself quite competent toattend to that. Finally, he concluded that it must be to watchhim--Old Mizzou. Acting on that supposition, he tried a new tack.

For two delicious hours he showed up, to his own satisfaction,Bennington's ignorance of mining. That was an easy enough task.Bennington did not even know what country-rock was. All he succeeded ineliciting confirmed him in the impression that de Laney was sent to spyon him. But why de Laney? Old Mizzou wagged his gray beard. And why spyon him? What could the company want to know? He gave it up. One thingalone was clear: this young man's understanding of his duties was verysimple. Bennington imagined he was expected to see certain assessmentwork done (whatever that was), and was to find out what he could aboutthe value of the property.

As a matter of sedulously concealed truth, he was really expected to donothing at all. The place had been made for him through Mr. de Laney'sinfluence, because he wanted to go West.

"Now, my boy," Bishop, the mining capitalist, had said, whenBennington had visited him in his New York office, "do you knowanything about mining?"

"No, sir," Bennington replied.

"Well, that doesn't matter much. We don't expect to do anything in theway of development. The case, briefly, is this: We've bought thisbusted proposition of the people who were handling it, and have assumedtheir debt. They didn't run it right. They had a sort of a wildcatindividual in charge of the thing, and he got contracts for sinkingshafts with all the turtlebacks out there, and then didn't pay forthem. Now, what we want you to do is this: First of all, you're to takecharge financially at that end of the line. That means paying the localdebts as we send you the money, and looking after whatever expendituresmay become necessary. Then you'll have to attend to the assessmentwork. Do you know what assessment work is?"

"No, sir."

"Well, in order to hold the various claims legally, the owners have todo one hundred dollars' worth of work a year on each claim. If thework isn't done, the claims can be 'jumped.' You'll have to hire themen, buy the supplies, and see that the full amount is done. We have aman out there named Davidson. You can rely on him, and he'll help youout in all practical matters. He's a good enough practical miner, buthe's useless in bossing a job or handling money. Between you, you oughtto get along."

"I'll try, anyway."

"That's right. Then, another thing. You can put in your spare timeinvestigating what the thing is worth. I don't expect much from you inthat respect, for you haven't had enough experience; but do the bestyou can. It'll be good practice, anyway. Hunt up Davidson; go over allthe claims; find out how the lead runs, and how it holds out; getsamples and ship them to me; investigate everything you can, and don'tbe afraid to write when you're stuck."

In other words, Bennington was to hold the ends of the reins while someone else drove. But he did not know that. He felt his responsibility.

As to the assessment work, Old Mizzou had already assured him there wasno immediate hurry; men were cheaper in the fall. As to investigating,he started in on that at once. He and Davidson climbed down shafts, andbroke off ore, and worked the gold pan. It was fun.

In the morning Bennington decided to work from seven until ten on_Aliris_. Then for three hours he and Old Mizzou prospected. In theafternoon the young man took a vacation and hunted Wild Westernadventures.

It may as well be remarked here that Bennington knew all about the Westbefore he left home. Until this excursion he had never even crossed theAlleghanies, but he thought he appreciated the conditions thoroughly.This was because he was young. He could close his eyes and see thecowboys scouring the plain. As a parenthesis it should be noted thatcowboys always scour the plain, just as sailors always scan thehorizon. He knew how the cowboys looked, because he had seen BuffaloBill's show; and he knew how they talked, because he had read accurateauthors of the school of Bret Harte. He could even imagine theromantic mountain maidens.

With his preconceived notions the country, in most particulars, talliedinterestingly. At first Bennington frequented the little town down thedraw. It answered fairly well to the story-book descriptions, butproved a bit lively for him. The first day they lent him a horse. Thehorse looked sleepy. It took him twenty minutes to get on the animaland twenty seconds to fall off. There was an audience. They made himpurchase strange drinks at outlandish prices. After that they shotholes all around his feet to induce him to dance. He had inherited anobstinate streak from some of his forebears, and declined when it wentthat far. They then did other things to him which were not pleasant.Most of these pranks seemed to have been instigated by a laughing,curly-haired young man named Fay. Fay had clear blue eyes, which seemedalways to mock you. He could think up more diabolical schemes in tenminutes than the rest of the men in as many hours. Bennington cameshortly to hate this man Fay. His attentions had so much of thegratuitous! For a number of days, even after the enjoyment of noveltyhad worn off, the Easterner returned bravely to Spanish Gulch everyafternoon for the mail. It was a matter of pride with him. He did notlike to be bluffed out. But Fay was always there.

"Tender _foot!_" the latter would shriek joyously, and bear down on theshrinking de Laney.

That would bring out the loafers. It all had to happen over again.

Bennington hoped that this performance would cease in time. It neverdid.

By a mental process, unnecessary to trace here, he modified his firstviews, and permitted Old Mizzou to get the mail. Spanish Gulch saw himno more.

After all, it was quite as good Western experience to wander in thehills. He did not regret the other. In fact, as he cast in review hisresearch in Wild West literature, he perceived that the incidents ofhis town visits were the proper thing. He would not have had themdifferent--to look back on. They were inspiring--to write home about.He recognised all the types--the miner, the gambler, thesaloon-keeper, the bad man, the cowboy, the prospector--just as thoughthey had stepped living from the pages of his classics. They had thetrue slouch; they used the picturesque language. The log cabins squaredwith his ideas. The broncos even exceeded them.

But now he had seen it all. There is no sense in draining an agreeablecup to satiety. He was quite content to enjoy his rambles in the hills,like the healthy youngster he was. But had he seen it all? Onreflection, he acknowledged he could not make this statement to himselfwith a full consciousness of sincerity. One thing was lacking from thepreconceived picture his imagination had drawn. There had been noMountain Flowers. By that he meant girls.

Every one knows what a Western girl is. She is a beautiful creature,always, with clear, tanned skin, bright eyes, and curly hair. She wearsa Tam o' Shanter. She rides a horse. Also, she talks deliciously, in asilver voice, about "old pards." Altogether a charming vision--inbooks.

This vision Bennington had not yet realized. The rest of the West cameup to specifications, but this one essential failed. In Spanish Gulchhe had, to be sure, encountered a number of girls. But they werered-handed, big-boned, freckled-faced, rough-skinned, and there wasn'ta Tam o' Shanter in the lot. Plainly servants, Bennington thought. TheMountain Flower must have gone on a visit. Come to think of it, therenever was more than one Mountain Flower to a town.

CHAPTER III

BENNINGTON HUNTS FOR GOLD AND FINDS A KISS

One day Old Mizzou brought him a blue-print map.

"This y'ar map," said he, spreading it out under his stubby fingers,"shows the deestrict. I gets it of Fay, so you gains an idee of th' layof the land a whole lot. Them claims marked with a crost belongs to th'Company. You kin take her and explore."

This struck Bennington as an excellent idea. He sat down at the tableand counted the crosses. There were fourteen of them. The differentlodes were laid off in mathematically exact rectangles, running in manydirections. A few joined one another, but most lay isolated. Theirrelative positions were a trifle confusing at first, but, after alittle earnest study, Bennington thought he understood them. He couldstart with the Holy Smoke, just outside the door. The John Logan laybeyond, at an obtuse angle. Then a jump of a hundred yards or so to thesouthwest would bring him to the Crazy Horse. This he resolved tolocate, for it was said to be on the same "lode" as a big strike someone had recently made. He picked up his rifle and set out.

Now, a blue-print map maker has undoubtedly accurate ideas as to pointsof the compass, and faultless proficiency in depicting bird's-eyeviews, but he neglects entirely the putting in of various ups and down,slants and windings of the country, which apparently twist the northpole around to the east-south-east. You start due west on a bee line,according to directions; after about ten feet you scramble over afallen tree, skirt a boulder, dip into a ravine, and climb a ledge.Your starting point is out of sight behind you; your destination is,Heaven knows where, in front. By the time you have walked six thousandactual feet, which is as near as you can guess to fifteen hundredtheoretical level ones, your little blazed stake in a pile of stones islikely to be almost anywhere within a liberal quarter of a mile. Thenit is guess-work. If the hill is pretty thickly staked out, the chasebecomes exciting. In the middle distance you see a post. You clambereagerly to it, only to find that it marks your neighbour's claim. Youhave lost your standpoint of a moment ago, and must start afresh. In anhour's time you have discovered every stake on the hill but the one youwant. In two hours' time you are staggering homeward a gibbering idiot.Then you are brought back to profane sanity by falling at full lengthover the very object of your search.

Bennington was treated to full measure of this experience. He found theJohn Logan lode without much difficulty, and followed its length withless, for the simple reason that its course lay over the round brow ofa hill bare of trees. He also discovered the "Northeast Corner of theCrazy Horse Lode" plainly marked on the white surface of a pine stakebraced upright in a pile of rocks. Thence he confidently paced south,and found nothing. Next trip he came across pencilled directionsconcerning the "Miner's Dream Lode." The time after he ran against the"Golden Ball" and the "Golden Chain Lodes." Bennington reflected; hismind was becoming a little heated.

"It's because I went around those ledges and boulders," he said tohimself; "I got off the straight line. This time I'll take the straightline and keep it."

So he addressed himself to the surmounting of obstructions. Work ofthat sort is not easy. At one point he lost his hold on a broad, steeprock, and slid ungracefully to the foot of it, his elbows diggingfrantically into the moss, and his legs straddled apart. As he struckbottom, he imagined he heard a most delicious little laugh. So real wasthe illusion that he gripped two handfuls of moss and looked aboutsharply, but of course saw nothing. The laugh was repeated.

He looked again, and so became aware of a Vision in pink, standing justin front of a big pine above him on the hill and surveying him withmischievous eyes.

Surprise froze him, his legs straddled, his hat on one side, his mouthopen. The Vision began to pick its way down the hill, eyeing him thewhile.

That dancing scrutiny seemed to mesmerize him. He was enchanted toperfect stillness, but he was graciously permitted to take in theparticulars of the girl's appearance. She was dainty. Every posture ofher slight figure was of an airy grace, as light and delicate as thatof a rose tendril swaying in the wind. Even when she tripped over aloose rock, she caught her balance again with a pretty little uplift ofthe hand. As she approached, slowly, and evidently not unwilling toallow her charms full time in which to work, Bennington could see thather face was delicately made; but as to the details he could not judgeclearly because of her mischievous eyes. They were large and wide andclear, and of a most peculiar colour--a purple-violet, of the shade onesometimes finds in flowers, but only in the flowers of a deep and shadywood. In this wonderful colour--which seemed to borrow the richness ofits hue rather from its depth than from any pigment of its own, just asbeyond soundings the ocean changes from green to blue--an hundred moodsseem to rise slowly from within, to swim visible, even though the mereexpression of her face gave no sign of them. For instance, at thepresent moment her features were composed to the utmost gravity. Yet inher eyes bubbled gaiety and fun, as successive up-swellings of aspring; or, rather, as the riffles of sunlight and wind, or thepictured flight of birds across a pool whose surface alone is stirred.

Bennington realized suddenly, with overwhelming fervency, that hepreferred to slide in solitude.

The Vision in the starched pink gingham now poised above him like ahumming-bird over a flower. From behind her back she withdrew one hand.In the hand was the missing claim stake.

"Is this what you are looking for?" she inquired demurely.

The mesmeric spell broke, and Bennington was permitted to babbleincoherencies.

She stamped her foot.

"Is this what you're looking for?" she persisted.

Bennington's chaos had not yet crystallized to relevancy.

"Wh-where did you get it?" he stammered again.

"IS THIS WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR?" she demanded in very large capitals.

The young man regained control of his faculties with an effort.

"Yes, it is!" he rejoined sharply; and then, with the instinct thatbids us appreciate the extent of our relief by passing an annoyancealong, "Don't you know it's a penal offence to disturb claim stakes?"

He had suddenly discovered that he preferred to find claim stakes onclaims.

The Vision's eyes opened wider.

"It must be nice to know so much!" said she, in reverent admiration.

Bennington flushed. As a de Laney, the girls he had known had alwaystaken him seriously. He disliked being made fun of.

"This is nonsense," he objected, with some impatience. "I must knowwhere it came from."

In the background of his consciousness still whirled the moil of hiswonder and bewilderment. He clung to the claim stake as a stableobject.

The Vision looked straight at him without winking, and those wonderfuleyes filled with tears. Yet underneath their mist seemed to sparklelittle points of light, as wavelets through a vapour which veils thesurface of the sea. Bennington became conscious-stricken because of thetears, and still he owned an uneasy suspicion that they were not real.

"I'm so sorry!" she said contritely, after a moment; "I thought I washelping you so much! I found that stake just streaking it over the topof the hill. It had got loose and was running away." The mist hadcleared up very suddenly, and the light-tipped sparkles of fun werechasing each other rapidly, as though impelled by a lively breeze. "Ithought you'd be ever so grateful, and, instead of that, you scold me!I don't believe I like you a bit!"

She looked him over reflectively, as though making up her mind.

Bennington laughed outright, and scrambled to his feet. "You areabsolutely incorrigible!" he exclaimed, to cover his confusion at hischange of face.

Her eyes fairly danced.

"Oh, what a _lovely_ word!" she cried rapturously. "What _does_ itmean? Something nice, or I'm sure you wouldn't have said it about me._Would_ you?" The eyes suddenly became grave. "Oh, please tell me!" shebegged appealingly.

Bennington was thrown into confusion at this, for he did not knowwhether she was serious or not. He could do nothing but stammer and getred, and think what a ridiculous ass he was making of himself. He mighthave considered the help he was getting in that.

"Well, then, you needn't," she conceded, magnanimously, after a moment."Only, you ought not to say things about girls that you don't dare tellthem in plain language. If you will say nice things about me, you mightas well say them so I can understand them; only, I do think it's alittle early in our acquaintance."

This cast Bennington still more in perplexity. He had apretty-well-defined notion that he was being ridiculed, but concerningthis, just a last grain of doubt remained. She rattled on.

"Well!" said she impatiently, "why don't you say something? Why don'tyou take this stick? I don't want it. Men are so stupid!"

That last remark has been made many, many times, and yet it never failsof its effect, which is at once to invest the speaker with daintinessindescribable, and to thrust the man addressed into nether inferiority.Bennington fell to its charm. He took the stake.

"Where does it belong?" he asked.

She pointed silently to a pile of stones. He deposited the stake in itsproper place, and returned to find her seated on the ground, plucking ahandful of the leaves of a little erect herb that grew abundantly inthe hollow. These she rubbed together and held to her face inside thesunbonnet.

"Who are you, anyway?" asked Bennington abruptly, as he returned.

"D' you ever see this before?" she inquired irrelevantly, looking upwith her eyes as she leaned over the handful. "Good for colds. Makesyour nose feel all funny and prickly."

She turned her hands over and began to drop the leaves one by one.Bennington caught himself watching her with fascinated interest insilence. He began to find this one of her most potent charms--thefaculty of translating into a grace so exquisite as almost to realizethe fabled poetry of motion, the least shrug of her shoulders, thesmallest crook of her finger, the slightest toss of her small,well-balanced head. She looked up.

"Want to smell?" she inquired, and held out her hands with a prettygesture.

Not knowing what else to do, Bennington stepped forward obediently andstooped over. The two little palms held a single crushed bit of theherb in their cup. They were soft, pink little palms, all wrinkled,like crumpled rose leaves. Bennington stooped to smell the herb;instead, he kissed the palms.

The girl sprang to her feet with one indignant motion and faced him.The eyes now flashed blue flame, and Bennington for the first timenoticed what had escaped him before--that the forehead was broad andthoughtful, and that above it the hair, instead of being blonde andcurly and sparkling with golden radiance, was of a peculiar wavy brownthat seemed sometimes full of light and sometimes lustreless and black,according as it caught the direct rays of the sun or not. Then heappreciated his offence.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, and turned away with a haughty shoulder.

"And we've never been introduced!" she said, half to herself, but herface was now concealed, so that Bennington could not see she laughed.She marched stiffly down the hill. Bennington turned to follow her,although the action was entirely mechanical, and he had no definiteidea in doing so.

"Don't you dare, sir!" she cried.

So he did not dare.

This vexed her for a moment. Then, having gone quite out of sight, shesank down and laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.

"I didn't think he knew enough!" she said, with a final hystericalchuckle.

This first impression of the Mountain Flower, Bennington would havebeen willing to acknowledge, was quite complicated enough, but he wasdestined to further surprises.

When he returned to the Holy Smoke camp he found Old Mizzou in earnestconversation with a peculiar-looking stranger, whose hand he waspromptly requested to shake.

The stranger was a tall, scraggly individual, dressed in the usualflannel shirt and blue jeans, the latter tucked into rusty cowhideboots. Bennington was interested in him because he was so phenomenallyugly. From the collar of his shirt projected a lean, sinewy neck, onwhich the too-abundant skin rolled and wrinkled in a dark red,wind-roughened manner particularly disagreeable to behold. The necksupported a small head. The face was wizened and tanned to a darkmahogany colour. It was ornamented with a grizzled goatee.

The man smoked a stub pipe. His remarks were emphasized by the gesturesof a huge and gnarled pair of hands.

"Mr. Lawton is from Old Mizzou, too, afore he moved to Illinoy,"commented Davidson. One became aware, from the loving tones in whichhe pronounced the two words, whence he derived his sobriquet.

Lawton expressed the opinion that Chillicothe, of that State, was thefinest town on top of earth.

Bennington presumed it might be, and then opportunely bethought him ofa bottle of Canadian Club, which, among other necessary articles, hehad brought with him from New York. This he produced. The oldMissourians brightened; Davidson went into the cabin after glasses anda corkscrew. He found the corkscrew all right, but apparently had somedifficulty in regard to the glasses. They could hear him callingvociferously for Mrs. Arthur. Mrs. Arthur had gone to the spring forwater. In a few moments Old Mizzou appeared in the doorway exceedinglyred of face.

"These yar is all right," assured Lawton consolingly, picking up one ofthe cups and examining the bottom of it with great care.

"I reckon they'll hold the likker, anyhow," agreed Davidson.

They passed the bottle politely to de Laney, and the latter helpedhimself. For his part, he was glad the tin cups had been necessary, forit enabled him to conceal the smallness of his dose. Lawton filled hisown up to the brim; Davidson followed suit.

"Here's how!" observed the latter, and the two old turtlebacks drankthe raw whisky down, near a half pint of it, as though it had been somuch milk.

Bennington fairly gasped with astonishment. "Don't you ever take anywater?" he asked.

They turned slowly. Old Mizzou looked him in the eye with glimmeringreproach.

"Not, if th' whisky's good, sonny," said he impressively.

"Wall," commented Lawton, after a pause, "that is a good drink. ReckonI must be goin'."

"Stay t' grub!" urged Old Mizzou heartily.

"Folks waitin'. Remember!"

They looked at Bennington and chuckled a little, to that young man'sdiscomfort.

"Lawton's a damn fine fella'," said Old Mizzou with emphasis.Bennington thought, with a shudder, of the loose-skinned, turkey-redneck, and was silent.

After supper Bennington and Old Mizzou played cribbage by the light ofa kerosene lamp.

"While I was hunting claims this afternoon," said the Easternersuddenly, "I ran across a mighty pretty girl."

"Yas?" observed Old Mizzou with indifference. "What fer a gal was it?"

"She didn't look as if she belonged around here. She was a slendergirl, very pretty, with a pink dress on."

For a full minute Bennington stared at the cards in his hand. Thepatriarch became impatient.

"Yore play, sonny," he suggested.

"I don't believe you know the one I mean," returned Bennington slowly."She's a girl with a little mouth and a nose that is tipped up just atrifle----"

"Snub!" interrupted Old Mizzou, with some impatience. "Yas, I knows.Same critter. Only one like her in th' Hills. Sasshays all over th'scenery, an' don't do nothin' but sit on rocks."

"So she's the daughter of that man!" said Bennington, still moreslowly.

"Wall, so Mis' Lawton sez," chuckled Mizzou.

That night Bennington lay awake for some time. He had discovered theMountain Flower; the story-book West was complete at last. But he hadoffended his discovery. What was the etiquette in such a case? BackEast he would have felt called upon to apologize for being rude. Then,at the thought of apologizing to a daughter of that turkey-necked oldwhisky-guzzler he had to laugh.

CHAPTER IV

THE SUN FAIRY

The next afternoon, after the day's writing and prospecting werefinished, Bennington resolved to go deer hunting. He had skippedthirteen chapters of his work to describe the heroine, Rhoda. She hadwonderful eyes, and was, I believe, dressed in a garment whose colourwas pink.

"Keep yore moccasins greased," Old Mizzou advised at parting; by whichhe meant that the young man was to step softly.

This he found to be difficult. His course lay along the top of theridge where the obstructions were many. There were outcrops, boulders,ravines, broken twigs, old leaves, and dikes, all of which had to besurmounted or avoided. They were all aggravating, but the dikespossessed some intellectual interest which the others lacked.

A dike, be it understood, is a hole in the earth made visible. That isto say, in old days, when mountains were much loftier than they arenow, various agencies brought it to pass that they split and crackedand yawned down to the innermost cores of their being in such hideousfashion that chasms and holes of great depth and perpendicularity wereopened in them. Thereupon the interior fires were released, and these,vomiting up a vast supply of molten material, filled said chasms andholes to the very brim. The molten material cooled into fire-hardenedrock. The rains descended and the snows melted. Under their erosiveinfluence the original mountains were cut down somewhat, but theerstwhile molten material, being, as we have said, fire-hardened,wasted very little, or not at all, and, as a consequence, stands forthabove its present surroundings in exact mould of the ancient cracks orholes.

Now, some dikes are long and narrow, others are short and wide, andstill others are nearly round. All, however, are highest points, and,head and shoulders above the trees, look abroad over the land.

When Bennington came to one of these dikes he was forced to pick hisway carefully in a detour around its base. Between times he foundhobnails much inclined to click against unforeseen stones. The brokentwig came to possess other than literary importance. After a little hisnerves asserted themselves. Unconsciously he relaxed his attention andbegan to think.

The subject of his thoughts was the girl he had seen just twenty-fourhours before. He caught himself remembering little things he had notconsciously noticed at the time, as, for instance, the strange contrastbetween the mischief in her eyes and the austerity of her brow, or thequeer little fashion she had of winking rapidly four or five times, andthen opening her eyes wide and looking straight into the depths of hisown. He considered it quite a coincidence that he had unconsciouslyreturned to the spot on which they had met the day before--the richCrazy Horse lode.

As though in answer to his recognition of this fact, her voice suddenlycalled to him from above.

"Hullo, little boy!" it cried.

He felt at once that he was pleased at the encounter.

"Hullo!" he answered; "where are you?"

"Right here."

He looked up, and then still up, until, at the flat top of thecastellated dike that stood over him, he caught a gleam of pink. Thecontrast between it, the blue of the sky, and the dark green of thetrees, was most beautiful and unusual. Nature rarely uses pink, exceptin sunsets and in flowers. Bennington thought pleasedly how everyimpression this girl made upon him was one of grace or beauty or brightcolour. The gleam of pink disappeared, and a great pine cone, heavywith pitch, came buzzing through the air to fall at his feet.

"That's to show you where I am," came the clear voice. "You ought tofeel honoured. I've only three cones left."

The dike before which Bennington had paused was one of the roundvariety. It rose perhaps twenty feet above the _debris_ at its base,sheer, gray, its surface almost intact except for an insignificantnumber of frost fissures. From its base the hill fell rapidly, so that,even from his own inferior elevation, he was enabled to look over thetops of trees standing but a few rods away from him. He could see thatthe summit of this dike was probably nearly flat, and he surmised that,once up there, one would become master of a pretty enough littleplateau on which to sit; but his careful circumvallation could discoverno possible method of ascent. The walls afforded no chance for asquirrel's foothold even. He began to doubt whether he had guessedaright as to the girl's whereabouts, and began carefully to examine thetops of the trees. Discovering nothing in them, he cast another puzzledglance at the top of the dike. A pair of violet eyes was scrutinizinghim gravely over the edge of it.

"How in the world did you get up there?" he cried.

"Flew," she explained, with great succinctness.

"Look out you don't fall," he warned hastily; her attitude wasalarming.

"I am lying flat," said she, "and I can't fall."

"You haven't told me how you got up. I want to come up, too."

"How do you know I want you?"

"I have such a lot of things to say!" cried Bennington, rather at aloss for a valid reason, but feeling the necessity keenly.

"Stop there! You are wrong to start with. Did you think that a creaturewho could fly to the tops of the rocks was a mere girl? Not at all."

"What do you mean?" asked the easily bewildered Bennington.

"What I say. I'm not a girl."

"What are you then?"

"A sun fairy."

"A sun fairy?"

"Yes; a real live one. See that cloud over toward the sun? The nicedowny one, I mean. That's my couch. I sleep on it all night. I've gotit near the sun so that it will warm up, you see."

"I see," cried Bennington. He could recognise foolery--provided it wereticketed plainly enough. He sat down on the flat rock before indicated,and clasped his knee with his hands, prepared to enjoy more. "Is thatyour throne up there, Sun Fairy?" he asked. She had withdrawn her headfrom sight.

"It is," her voice came down to him in grave tones.

"It must be a very nice one."

"The nicest throne you ever saw."

"I never saw one, but I've often heard that thrones were unpleasantthings."

"I am sitting, foolish mortal," said she, in tones of deepcommiseration, "on a soft, thick cushion of moss--much morecomfortable, I imagine, than hard, flat rocks. And the nice warm sunis shining on me--it must be rather chilly in the woods to-day. Andthere is a breeze blowing from the Big Horn--old rocks are always dampand stuffy in the shade. And I am looking away out over the Hills--Ihope some people enjoy the sight of piles of quartzite."

"Cruel sun fairy!" cried Bennington. "Why do you tantalize me so withthe delights from which you debar me? What have I done?"

There was a short silence.

"Can't you think of anything you've done?" asked the voice,insinuatingly.

Bennington's conscience-stricken memory stirred. It did not seem soridiculous, under the direct charm of the fresh young voice that camedown through the summer air from above, like a dove's note from atreetop, to apologize to Lawton's girl. The incongruity now was inforcing into this Arcadian incident anything savouring ofconventionality at all. It had been so idyllic, this talk of the sunfairy and the cloud; so like a passage from an old book of legends,this dainty episode in the great, strong, Western breezes, under thegreat, strong, Western sky. Everything should be perfect, not to beblamed.

The head appeared over the edge of the rock, inspected him gravely fora moment, and was withdrawn.

"Then it is accepted," said the voice.

"Thank you!" he replied sincerely. "And now are you going to let downyour rope ladder, or whatever it is? I really want to talk to you."

"You are so persistent!" cried the petulant voice, "and so foolish! Itis like a man to spoil things by questionings!"

He suddenly felt the truth of this. One can not talk every day to a sunfairy, and the experience can never be repeated. He settled back on therock.

"Pardon me, Sun Fairy!" he cried again. "Rope ladders, indeed, to onewho has but to close her eyes and she finds herself on a downy cloudnear the sun. My mortality blinded me!"

"Now you are a nice boy," she approved more contentedly, "and as areward you may ask me one question."

"All right," he agreed; and then, with instinctive tact, "What do yousee up there?"

He could hear her clap her hands with delight, and he felt glad that hehad followed his impulse to ask just this question instead of one morepersonal and more in line with his curiosity.

"Listen!" she began. "I see pines, many pines, just the tops of them,and they are all waving in the breeze. Did you ever see trees from ontop? They are quite different. And out from the pines come great roundhills made all of stone. I think they look like skulls. Then there arebreathless descents where the pines fall away. Once in a while a littlewhite road flashes out."

"Yes," urged Bennington, as the voice paused. "And what else do yousee?"

"I see the prairie, too," she went on half dreamily. "It is brown now,but the green is beginning to shine through it just a very little. Andout beyond there is a sparkle. That is the Cheyenne. And beyond thatthere is something white, and that is the Bad Lands."

The voice broke off with a happy little laugh.

Bennington saw the scene as though it lay actually spread out beforehim. There was something in the choice of the words, clearcut,decisive, and descriptive; but more in the exquisite modulations of thevoice, adding here a tint, there a shade to the picture, and castingover the whole that poetic glamour which, rarely, is imitated ingrosser materials by Nature herself, when, just following sunset, shesuffuses the landscape with a mellow afterglow.

The head, sunbonneted, reappeared perked inquiringly sideways.

"Hello, stranger!" it called with a nasal inflection, "how air ye? Doy' think minin' is goin' t' pan out well this yar spring?" Then shecaught sight of his weapon. "What are you going to shoot?" she askedwith sudden interest.

"I kind of like to shoot!" said she, a little wistfully. "What sort ofa gun is it?"

"A Savage smokeless," answered Bennington perfunctorily.

"One of the thirty-calibres?" inquired the sunbonnet with new interest.

"Yes," gasped Bennington, astonished at so much feminine knowledge offirearms.

"Oh! I'd like to see it. I never saw any of those. May I shoot it, justonce?"

"Of course you may. More than once. Shall I come up?"

"No. I'll come down. You sit right still on that rock."

The sunbonnet disappeared, and there ensued a momentary commotion onthe other side of the dike. In an instant the girl came around thecorner, picking her way over the loose blocks of stone. With thefinger-tips of either hand she held the pink starched skirt up,displaying a neat little foot in a heavy little shoe. Diagonally acrossthe skirt ran two irregular brown stains. She caught him looking atthem.

"Naughty, naughty!" said she, glancing down at them with a grimace.

She dropped her skirt, and stood up beside him with a pretty shake ofthe shoulders.

"Now let's see it," she begged.

She examined the weapon with much interest, throwing down and back thelever in a manner that showed she was accustomed at least to theold-style arm.

"How light it is!" she commented, squinting through the sights."Doesn't it kick awfully?"

"Not a bit. Smokeless powder, you know."

"Of course. What'll we shoot at?"

Bennington fumbled in his pockets and produced an envelope.

"How's this?" he asked.

She seized it and ran like an antelope--with the same _gliding_motion--to a tree about thirty paces distant, on which she pinned thebit of paper. They shot. Bennington hit the paper every time. The girlmissed it once. At this she looked a little vexed.

"I think I would like to go to the top of the rock there, and see thepines, and the skull-stones, and the prairies."

She glanced toward him, knitting her brows. "It is my very own," shesaid doubtfully. "I've never let anybody go up there before."

One of the diminutive chipmunks of the hills scampered out from a cleftin the rocks and perched on a moss-covered log, chattering eagerly andjerking his tail in the well-known manner of chipmunks.

"Oh, see! see!" she cried, all excitement in a moment. She seized therifle, and taking careful aim, fired. The chattering ceased; thechipmunk disappeared.

Bennington ran to the log. Behind it lay the little animal. The longsteel-jacketed bullet had just grazed the base of its brain. He pickedit up gently in the palm of his hand and contemplated it.

It was such a diminutive beast, not as large as a good-sized rat, quitesmaller than our own fence-corner chipmunks of the East. It's littlesides were daintily striped, its little whiskers were as perfect asthose of the great squirrels in the timber bottom. In its pouches werethe roots of pine cones. Bennington was not a sentimentalist, but theincident, against the background of the light-hearted day, seemed tohim just a little pathetic. Something of the feeling showed in hiseyes.

The girl, who had drawn near, looked from him to the dead chipmunk, andback again. Then she burst suddenly into tears.

"Oh, cruel, cruel!" she sobbed. "What did I do it for? What did you_let_ me do it for?"

Her distress was so keen that the young man hastened to relieve it.

"There," he reassured her lightly, "don't do that! Why, you are a greathunter. You got your game. And it was a splendid shot. We'll have himskinned when we get back home, and we'll cure the skin, and you canmake something out of it--a spectacle case," he suggested at random. "Iknow how you feel," he went on, to give her time to recover, "but allhunters feel that way occasionally. See, I'll put him just here untilwe get ready to go home, where nothing can get him."

He deposited the squirrel in the cleft of a rock, quite out of sight,and stood back as though pleased. "There, that's fine!" he concluded.

With one of those instantaneous transitions, which seemed so natural toher, and yet which appeared to reach not at all to her real nature, shehad changed from an aspect of passionate grief to one of solemninquiry. Bennington found her looking at him with the soul brimming tothe very surface of her great eyes.

"I think you may come up on my rock," she said simply after a moment.

They skirted the base of the dike together until they had reached thewesternmost side. There Bennington was shown the means of ascent, whichhe had overlooked before because of his too close examination of thecliff itself. At a distance of about twenty feet from the dike grew alarge pine tree, the lowest branch of which extended directly over thelittle plateau and about a foot above it. Next to the large pine stoodtwo smaller saplings side by side and a few inches apart. These hadbeen converted into a ladder by the nailing across of rustic rounds.

"That's how I get up," explained the girl. "Now you go back around thecorner again, and when I'm ready I'll call."

Bennington obeyed. In a few moments he heard again the voice in the airsummoning him to approach and climb.

He ascended the natural ladder easily, but when within six or eightfeet of the large branch that reached across to the dike, the smallerof the two saplings ceased, and so, naturally, the ladder terminated.

"Hi!" he called, "how did you get up this?"

He looked across the intervening space expectantly, and then, to hissurprise, he observed that the girl was blushing furiously.

"I--I," stammered a small voice after a moment's hesitation, "I guessI--_shinned_!"

A light broke across Bennington's mind as to the origin of the two darkstreaks on the gown, and he laughed. The girl eyed him reproachfullyfor a moment or so; then she too began to laugh in an embarrassedmanner. Whereupon Bennington laughed the harder. He shinned up thetree, to find that an ingenious hand rope had been fitted above thebridge limb, so that the crossing of the short interval to the rock wasa matter of no great difficulty. In another instant he stood upon thetop of the dike.

It was, as he had anticipated, nearly flat. Under the pine branch,which might make a very good chair back, grew a thick cushion of moss.The one tree broke the freedom of the eye's sweep toward the west, butin all other directions it was uninterrupted. As the girl had said, thetops of pines alone met the view, miles on miles of them, undulating,rising, swelling, breaking against the barrier of a dike, or lappingthe foot of a great round boulder-mountain. Here and there a darkerspot suggested a break for a mountain peak; rarely a fleck of whitemarked a mountain road. Back of them all--ridge, mountain, cavernousvalley--towered old Harney, sun-browned, rock-diademed, a few wisps ofcloud streaming down the wind from his brow, locks heavy with the ageof the great Manitou whom he was supposed to represent. Eastward, theprairie like a peaceful sea. Above, the alert sky of the west. Andthrough all the air a humming--vast, murmurous, swelling--as themountain breeze touched simultaneously with strong hand the chords, notof one, but a thousand pine harps.

Bennington drew in a deep breath, and looked about in all directions.The girl watched him.

"Ah! it is beautiful!" he murmured at last with a half sigh, and lookedagain.

She seized his hand eagerly.

"Oh, I'm so glad you said that--and no more than that!" she cried. "Ifeel the sun fairy can make you welcome now."

CHAPTER V

THE SPIRIT MOUNTAIN

"From now on," said the girl, shaking out her skirts before sittingdown, "I am going to be a mystery."

"You are already," replied Bennington, for the first time aware thatsuch was the fact.

"No fencing. I have a plain business proposition to make. You and I aregoing to be great friends. I can see that now."

"I hope so."

"And you, being a--well, an open-minded young man" (Now what does shemean by that? thought Bennington), "will be asking all about myself. Iam going to tell you nothing. I am going to be a mystery."

"I'm sure----"

"No, you're not sure of anything, young man. Now I'll tell you this:that I am living down the gulch with my people."

"I know--Mr. Lawton's."

She looked at him a moment. "Exactly. If you were to walk straightahead--not out in the air, of course--you could see the roof of thehouse. Now, after we know each other better, the natural thing for youto do will be to come and see me at my house, won't it?"

Bennington agreed that it would.

"Well, you mustn't."

Bennington expressed his astonishment.

"I will explain a very little. In a month occurs the Pioneer's Picnicat Rapid. You don't know what the Pioneer's Picnic is? Ignorant boy!It's our most important event of the year. Well, until that time I amgoing to try an experiment. I am going to see if--well, I'll tell you;I am going to try an experiment on a man, and the man is you, and I'llexplain the whole thing to you after the Pioneer's Picnic, and not amoment before. Aren't you curious?"

"I am indeed," Bennington assured her sincerely.

She took on a small air of tyranny. "Now understand me. I mean what Isay. If you want to see me again, you must do as I tell you. You musttake me as I am, and you must mind me."

Bennington cast a fleeting wonder over the sublime self-confidencewhich made this girl so certain he would care to see her again. Then,with a grip at the heart, he owned that the self-confidence was wellfounded.

"All right," he assented meekly.

"Good!" she cried, with a gleam of mischief. "Behold me! Old BillLawton's gal! If you want to be pards, put her thar!"

"And so you are a girl after all, and no sun fairy," smiled Benningtonas he "put her thar."

They chatted of small things for a time. Bennington felt intuitivelythat there was something a little strange about this girl, something alittle out of the ordinary, something he had never been conscious of inany other girl. Yet he could never seize the impression and examine it.It was always just escaping; just taking shape to the point ofvisibility, and then melting away again; just rising in themodulations of her voice to a murmur that the ear thought to seize asa definite chord, and then dying into a hundred other cadences. Hetried to catch it in her eyes, where so much else was to be seen.Sometimes he perceived its influence, but never itself. It passed as ashadow in the lower deeps, as though the feather mass of a great seagrowth had lifted slowly on an undercurrent, and then as slowly hadsunk back to its bed, leaving but the haunting impression of somethingshapeless that had darkened the hue of the waters. It was most like asadness that had passed. Perhaps it was merely an unconscious trick ofthought or manner.

"Why, certainly not, if you don't want me to, but what am I to callyou?"

"Do you know," she confided with a pretty little gesture, "I havealways disliked my real name. It's ugly and horrid. I've often wishedI were a heroine in a book, and then I could have a name I reallyliked. Now here's a chance. I'm going to let you get up one for me, butit must be pretty, and we'll have it all for our very own."

"I don't quite see----" objected the still conventional de Laney.

"Your wits, your wits, haven't you any wits at _all_?" she cried withimpatience over his unresponsiveness.

"Well, let me see. It isn't easy to do a thing like that on the spur ofthe moment, Sun Fairy. A fairy's a fay, isn't it? I might call youFay."

"Fay," she repeated in a startled tone.

Bennington remembered that this was the name of the curly-haired youngman who had lent him the bucking horse, and frowned.

"No, I don't believe I like that," he recanted hastily.

"Take time and think about it," she suggested.

"I think of one that would be appropriate," he said after some littletime. "It is suggested by that little bird there. It is Phoebe."

"Do you think it is appropriate," she objected. "A Phoebe bird or aPhoebe girl always seemed to me to be demure and quiet and thoughtfuland sweet-voiced and fond of dim forests, while I am a frivolous,laughing, sunny individual who likes the open air and doesn't care forshadows at all."

"Yet I feel it is appropriate," he insisted. He paused and went on alittle timidly in the face of his new experience in giving expressionto the more subtle feelings. "I don't know whether I can express it ornot. You are laughing and sunny, as you say, but there is something inyou like the Phoebe bird just the same. It is like those cloudshadows." He pointed out over the mountains. Overhead a number ofsummer clouds were winging their way from the west, casting on theearth those huge irregular shadows which sweep across it so swiftly,yet with such dignity; so rushingly, and yet so harmlessly. "The hillsare sunny and bright enough, and all at once one of the shadows crossesthem, and it is dark. Then in another moment it is bright again."

"And do you really see that in me?" she asked curiously. "You are adear boy," she continued, looking at him for some moments withreflective eyes. "It won't do though," she said, rising at last. "It'stoo 'fancy.'"

"I don't know then," he confessed with some helplessness.

"I'll tell you what I've always _wanted_ to be called," said she, "eversince I was a little girl. It is 'Mary.'"

"Mary!" he cried, astonished. "Why, it is such a common name."

"It is a beautiful name," she asserted. "Say it over. Aren't thesyllables soft and musical and caressing? It is a lovely name. Why Iremember," she went on vivaciously, "a girl who was named Mary, and whodidn't like it. When she came to our school she changed it, but shedidn't dare to break it to the family all at once. The first letterhome she signed herself 'Mae.' Her father wrote back, 'My deardaughter, if the name of the mother of Jesus isn't good enough for you,come home.'" She laughed at the recollection.

"Then you have been away to school?" asked the young man.

"Yes," she replied shortly.

She adroitly led him to talk of himself. He told her naively of NewYork and tennis, of brake parties and clubs, and even afternoon teasand balls, all of which, of course, interested a Western girlexceedingly. In this it so happened that his immaturity showed moreplainly than before. He did not boast openly, but he introducedextraneous details important in themselves. He mentioned knowingPennington the painter, and Brookes the writer, merely in a casualfashion, but with just the faintest flourish. It somehow became knownthat his family had a crest, that his position was high; in short, thathe was a de Laney on both sides. He liked to tell it to this girl,because it was evidently fresh and new to her, and because in thepresence of her inexperience in these matters he gained a confidence inhimself which he had never dared assume before.

She looked straight in front of her and listened, throwing in acomment now and then to assist the stream of his talk. At last, when hefell silent, she reached swiftly out and patted his cheek with herhand.

"You are a dear big _boy_," she said quietly. "But I like it--oh, somuch!"

From the tree tops below the clear warble of the purple finchproclaimed that under the fronds twilight had fallen. The vast greensurface of the hills was streaked here and there with irregular peaksof darkness dwindling eastward. The sun was nearly down.

A sudden gloom blotted out the fretwork of the pine shadows that had,during the latter part of the afternoon, lain athwart the rock. Theylooked up startled.

The shadow of Harney had crept out to them, and, even as they looked,it stole on, cat-like, across the lower ridges toward the East. Oneafter another the rounded hills changed hue as it crossed them. For amoment it lingered in the tangle of woods at the outermost edge, andthen without further pause glided out over the prairie. They watched itfascinated. The sparkle was quenched in the Cheyenne; the white gleamof the Bad Lands became a dull gray, scarce distinguishable from thegray of the twilight. Though a single mysterious cleft a long yellowbar pointed down across the plains, paused at the horizon, and slowlylifted into the air. The mountain shadow followed it steadily up intothe sky, growing and growing against the dullness of the east, until atlast over against them in the heavens was the huge phantom of amountain, infinitely greater, infinitely grander than any mountain everseen by mortal eyes, and lifting higher and higher, commanded upward bythat single wand of golden light. Then suddenly the wand was withdrawnand the ghost mountain merged into the yellow afterglow of evening.

The girl had watched it breathless. At its dissolution she seized theyoung man excitedly by the arm.

"The Spirit Mountain!" she cried. "I have never seen it before; and nowI see it--with you."

She looked at him with startled eyes.

"With you," she repeated.

"What is it? I don't understand."

She did not seem to hear his question.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"Why--nothing." She caught her breath and recovered command of herselfsomewhat. "That is, it is just an old legend that I have often heard,and it startled me for a minute."

"Will you tell me the legend?"

"Not now; some time. We must go now, for it will soon be dark."

They wandered along the ridge toward Deerfoot Gulch in silence. She hadtaken her sunbonnet off, and was enjoying the cool of the evening. Hecarried the rifle over the crook of his arm, and watched her pensiveface. The poor little chipmunk lay stiffening in the cleft of the rock,forgotten. The next morning a prying jay discovered him and carried himaway. He was only a little chipmunk after all--a very littlechipmunk--and nobody and nothing missed him in all the wide world, noteven his mate and his young, for mercifully grief in the animal worldis generally short-lived where tragedies are frequent. His life meantlittle. His death----

At the dip of the gulch they paused.

"I live just down there," she said, "and now, good-night."

"Mayn't I take you home?"

"Remember your promise."

"Oh, very well."

She looked at him seriously. "I am going to ask you to do what I havenever asked any man before," she said slowly--"to meet me. I want youto come to the rock to-morrow afternoon. I want to hear more about NewYork."

"Of course I'll come," he agreed delightedly. "I feel as if I had knownyou years already."

They said good-bye. She walked a few steps irresolutely down thehillside, and then, with a sudden impulsive movement, returned. Shelifted her face gravely, searchingly to his.

"I like you," said she earnestly. "You have kind eyes," and was gonedown through the graceful alder saplings.

Bennington stood and watched the swaying of the leaf tops that markedher progress until she emerged into the lower gulch. There she turnedand looked back toward the ridge, but apparently could not see him,though he waved his hand. The next instant Jim Fay strolled into the"park" from the direction of Lawton's cabin. Bennington saw her springto meet him, holding out both hands, and then the two strolled backdown the gulch talking earnestly, their heads close together.

Why should he care? "Mary, Mary, Mary!" he cried within himself as hehurried home. And in remote burial grounds the ancient de Laneys onboth sides turned over in their lead-lined coffins.

CHAPTER VI

BENNINGTON AS A MAN OF BUSINESS

That evening Old Mizzou returned from town with a watery eye and a mindthat ran to horses.

"He is shore a fine cayuse," he asserted with extreme impressiveness."He is one of them broncs you jest _loves_. An' he's jes 's cheap! Ilikes you a lot, sonny; I deems you as a face-card shore, an' ef anyone ever tries fer to climb yore hump, you jest calls on pore OldMizzou an' he mingles in them troubles immediate. You must have thatcayuse an' go scoutin' in th' hills, yo' shore must! Ol' manDavidson'll do th' work fer ye, but ye shore must scout. 'Taint healthynot t' git exercise on a cayuse. It shorely ain't! An' you must git t'know these yar hills, you must. They is beautiful an' picturesque, andis full of scenery. When you goes back East, you wants to know allabout 'em. I wouldn't hev you go back East without knowin' all about'em for anythin' in the worl', I likes ye thet much!"

Old Mizzou paused to wipe away a sympathetic tear with a ratheruncertain hand.

"Y' wants to start right off too, thet's th' worst of it, so's t' see'em all afore you goes, 'cause they is lots of hills and I'm 'fearedyou won't stay long, sonny; I am that! I has my ideas these yar claimsis no good, I has fer a fact, and they won't need no one here long, andthen we'll lose ye, sonny, so you mus' shore hev that cayuse."

Old Mizzou rambled on in like fashion most of the evening, toBennington's great amusement, and, though next morning he was quitehimself again, he still clung to the idea that Bennington shouldexamine the pony.

"He is a fine bronc, fer shore," he claimed, "an' you'd better gitarter him afore some one else gits him."

As Bennington had for some time tentatively revolved in his mind thedesirability of something to ride, this struck him as being a goodidea. All Westerners had horses--in the books. So he abandoned_Aliris: A Romance of all Time_, for the morning, and drove down toSpanish Gulch with Old Mizzou.

He was mentally braced for devilment, but his arch-enemy, Fay, was notin sight. To his surprise, he got to the post office quite withoutmolestation. There he was handed two letters. One was from his parents.The other, his first business document, proved to be from the miningcapitalist. The latter he found to inclose separate drafts for variousamounts in favour of six men. Bishop wrote that the young man was tohand these drafts to their owners, and to take receipts for the amountsof each. He promised a further installment in a few weeks.

Bennington felt very important. He looked the letter all over again,and examined the envelope idly. The Spanish Gulch postmark bore date ofthe day before.

"That's funny," said Bennington to himself. "I wonder why Mizzou didn'tbring it up with him last night?" Then he remembered the old man'swatery eye and laughed. "I guess I know," he thought.

The next thing was to find the men named in the letter. He did not knowthem from Adam. Mizzou saw no difficulty, however, when the matter waslaid before him.

"Work's purty slack," crawfished Davidson. "But I tells you I don't_know_. We has to find out," and he shuffled away toward the saloon.

Anybody but Bennington would have suspected something. There was thedelayed letter, the supernatural knowledge of Old Mizzou, the absenceof Fay. Even the Easterner might have been puzzled to account for thecrowded condition of the Straight Flush at ten in the morning, if hisattention had not been quite fully occupied in posing before himself asthe man of business.

When Mizzou and his companion entered the room, the hum of talk died,and every one turned expectantly in the direction of the newcomers.

"Gents," said Old Mizzou, "this is Mr. de Laney, th' new sup'rintendentof th' Holy Smoke. Mr. de Laney, gents!"

There was a nodding of heads.

Every one looked eagerly expectant. The man behind the bar turned backhis cuffs. De Laney, feeling himself the centre of observation, grewnervous. He drew from his pocket Bishop's letter, and read out the fivenames. "I'd like to see those men," he said.

The men designated came forward. After a moment's conversation, the sixadjourned to the hotel, where paper and ink could be procured.

After their exit a silence fell, and the miners looked at each otherwith ludicrous faces.

"An' he never asked us to take a drink!" exclaimed one sorrowfully."That settles it. It may not be fer th' good of th' camp, Jim Fay, butI reckons it ain't much fer th' harm of it. I goes you."

"Me to," "and me," "and me," shouted other voices.

Fay leaped on the bar and spread his arms abroad.

"Speech! Speech!" they cried.

"Gentlemen of the great and glorious West!" he began. "It rejoices meto observe this spirit animating your bosoms. Trampling down the finerfeelings that you all possess to such an unlimited degree, puttingaside all thought of merely material prosperity, you are now prepared,at whatever cost, to ally yourselves with that higher poetic justicewhich is above barter, above mere expediency, above even the ordinarythis-for-that fairness which often passes as justice among the effeteand unenlightened savages of the East. Gentlemen of the great andglorious West, I congratulate you!"

The miners stood close around the bar. Every man's face bore a broadgrin. At this point they interrupted with howls and cat-calls ofapplause. "Ain't he a _peach_!" said one to another, and composedhimself again to listen. At the conclusion of a long harangue theyyelled enthusiastically, and immediately began the more informaldiscussion of what was evidently a popular proposition. When the fivewho had been paid off returned, everybody had a drink, while thenewcomers were made acquainted with the subject. Old Mizzou, who hadlistened silently but with a twinkle in his eye, went to hunt upBennington.

They examined the horse together. The owner named thirty dollars as hisprice. Old Mizzou said this was cheap. It was not. Bennington agreed totake the animal on trial for a day or two, so they hitched a lariataround its neck and led it over to the wagon. After despatching a fewerrands they returned to camp. Bennington got out his ledger andjournal and made entries importantly. Old Mizzou disappeared in thedirection of the corral, where he was joined presently by the manArthur.

CHAPTER VII

THE MEETING AT THE ROCK

On his way to keep the appointment of the afternoon, Bennington deLaney discovered within himself a new psychological experience. Hefound that, since the evening before, he had been observing thingsabout him for the purpose of detailing them to his new friend. Littlebeauties of nature--as when a strange bird shone for an instant invivid contrast to the mountain laurel near his window; an unusualeffect of pine silhouettes near the sky; a weird, semi-poeticsuggestion of one of Poe's stories implied in a contorted shadow castby a gnarled little oak in the light of the moon--these he had noticedand remembered, and was now eager to tell his companion, with fullassurance of her sympathy and understanding. Three days earlier hewould have passed them by.

But stranger still was his discovery that he had _always_ noticed suchthings, and had remembered them. Observations of the sort hadheretofore been quite unconscious. Without knowing it he had alwaysbeen a Nature lover, one who appreciated the poetry of her moods, onewho saw the beauty of her smiles, or, what is more rare, the greaterbeauty of her frown. The influence had entered into his being, but hadlain neglected. Now it stole forth as the odour of a dried balsam boughsteals from the corner of a loft whither it has been thrown carelessly.It was all delightful and new, and he wanted to tell her of it.

He did so. After a little he told her about _Aliris: A Romance of allTime_, in which she appeared so interested that he detailed the mainidea and the plot. At her request, he promised to read it to her. Hewas very young, you see, and very inexperienced; he threw himselfgenerously, without reserve, on this girl's sympathies in a manner ofwhich, assuredly, he should have been quite ashamed. Only the veryyoung are not ashamed.

The girl listened, at first half amused. Then she was touched, for she